To follow is a recommended pre-story. It's eleventy billion words long. Enjoy.
I reckon I better find an outlet for all this.
I've converted. I'd like to begin by saying that. I believe in the Paleolithic lifestyle. More on this later.
From a girl that would eat mayonnaise sammiches and play PlayStation 2 (Kingdom Hearts. Yeah, yeah). The girl that would eat pints of Blue Bell and be stationary for months at a time. Who would never call her best friend (Mom!) or return her calls - I'm proud to say I'm finding a much more awesome me.
During my binges, I hated myself.
I hated hating myself. It was time for change.
Background:
I am 5'11.5" (6' on a really good day). I started playing golf when I was two. I began playing softball when I was five. I started pitching when I was nine. I decided to try out for volleyball my freshman year (I played in 7th and 8th, but barely knew how to keep score - Gil jump, Gil smash!) and made JV - I later joined Varsity when they went to the Texas 5-A State Championship. I pitched Varsity softball as a fish, too, and I had my letter jacket before anybeast. I graduated high school at 168 lbs, and I'm was NOT terribly unfortunate-looking.
Backstory:
For whatever reason, I decided to play volleyball (which I played for five years prior) in college, instead of softball (which I had played since kindergarten and near-perfected the art of pitching). Lord knows why, but we all make really stupid, life-changing decisions sometimes, right?
So off I go to San Marcos, TX - a sleepy little town where college kids spent their time getting obliterated or hanging out at the Meat Market. The riverbank of the Texas State campus cannot be denied its due when it comes to boys that look like they swallowed the sun.
I was pale, had put on weight since high school (a piddly 10 lbs.) and a fine layer of fluff obscured my once-toned abdominals. Nothing to worry too much about. Oh, and my hamstrings were tight. Remember that point.
The pre-season began.
Let me tell you that the third hardest thing to do in the world is play sports at the collegiate level. I boldly proclaim nothing short of military boot camp prepares you for what you are about to go through - mentally, physically, and emotionally.
I was the
sick chicken. Everyone else pretty much got in better shape. I got
fat. Straight up, no-shame-about-it fat.
By the time the first games started, I'm fairly sure I packed on about 20 lbs. All I know is, halfway through the season, I weighed 186... Which I carried well, but I was way too thick to play volleyball effectively.
For a year, I was heckled, shunned, ignored, mocked, and humiliated by about 13 other girls. I will never forget Leslie Bowers telling me it would be necessary to "roll me into the gym" if I hesitated to drop my milkshake immediately (while she's sitting there, a size 2, eating Jack in the Box in the same car with me). Skinny bitch (which is, oddly enough, a compliment in some circles).
Misery loves company, though, and I was never more miserable than when I was eating. Pasta slathered in ranch, pizza with ranch, drowned-ranch-salad. I would eat two or three bowls of Corn Pops in a sitting. I never felt full.
Metaphorically, I suppose you could say there was an emptiness inside of me. Away from the safe parameters of my sheltered childhood where I was protected, encouraged and loved, I am now facing the exact opposite, and a part of me struggled to cope with the anxiety I felt in daily life.
The only thing that made me feel any type of "good" was food.
I ate myself silly. Literally, GORGE myself. Which made me feel bad. Welcome to the paradox. And it's your existence.
Then I would wake up the next day, have a massive cinnamon roll and a hot chocolate for breakfast and waddle my growing girth to class.
Guys, let me tell you some science: It is
*HORRIBLE* to be "the chubby one."
The phrase, "You have such a pretty face!" is crushing. I mean, because what about the rest of me?
In practice by 2 p.m sharp. You're running, you're lifting weights, you're doing interval cardio, throwing yourself on the floor, landing on your knees, destroying your rotator cuff. Needless to say, I sustained a career-ending injury (hello, weather knee).
During this time, I managed to get all the way up to 220 lbs, and you could consider me unhealthy to the extreme. I was 55 lbs overweight. I was disgusted by my reflection. Self-esteem was a laughable subject with me. What jawline lol?
For three semesters (I think?) I hid in my room. I dodged my parents. I only came out for Taco Bell or to buy toilet paper. It was not a proud moment when I realized
I lost myself.
I moved back home to an alarmed mother and a confused father. Both my parents handled my weight gain poorly. They had Blue Bell in the house, my father still bought Oreo's. And I still ate them.
My weight did decreased, however. When I moved home, I became gainfully employed at SRO and scored a cocktail waitress gig. After a steady decline in pant size (due mainly to my mother's efforts), I dropped another ten pounds from all the walking suddenly introduced into my life. I was 174 when I stopped working at SRO.
Then, serendipitously, I began work at the Front Desk at Life Time Fitness. The company promoted a "macro healthy way of life" that I still believe in today, regardless of my employment. I got to work out at this
incredible fitness center that closely resembled a stationary cruise ship to some degree.
I started dropping pounds as a result of near-daily work outs. It progressed to the point where boredom was replaced with late-night cardio sessions at the gym. I was obsessed. Not only with that, but with Ender.
Yeah, I admit it. It was fantastic (read: "
a wild lack of restraint, a fancifulness so extreme as to lose touch with reality"). Long story short, we Internetted from 2001ish (I was 15) to nearly 2011ish. A decade of talking. I always joked that we've "just talked" longer than most people stay married.
He went to the Marines. We stayed in touch. I went to college. Had boyfriends, made stupid choices, got most of it out of my system. I got involved in a hugely bad situation (= werewolves), and I cannot describe the pain I felt as I watched his name flash up on my phone and was unable answer.
Moved on from hugely bad situation, time passes, and he opines that he might just come meet me when he gets out of the Marines. I was convinced that my fantasy (which had built up over 10 years).
Man, talk about some rose-colored glasses. Ha! I was on top of the world. The sky was more blue, traffic was way less annoying, and I went to the gym like a fiend.
My eating also changed drastically. I became aware of "calories in, calories out" in a painfully meticulous way. After all, I was to meet my alleged soulmate at the end of the summer. I committed myself to being the absolute best person I could be, because I felt like I wanted to for him. Because I thought he deserved the best.
This went on for about three or four months, then, one day, silence.
He stopped calling, he stopped texting, he stopped IMing - all forms of communication that we previously utilized on a regular basis were cut off.
I tried not to worry about it too much, but I was sick. I was up till all hours, worked out like an idiot, also ate like a moron. I remember my friends telling me to "eat something." Truth is, I was eating something AND keeping it down. Never (well, almost never) have I induced vomiting - especially never, ever for weight loss. It's like cheating, and it's super bad for you. My guilt was never enough to make me want to revisit a bad decision that soon, but I thought about it pretty loud.
Then came the time he did pick up. "This isn't what I want." I remember saying something so ludicrously stupid that it still haunts me today. Ugh. I didn't cry until we got off the phone, though.
In almost a feat of super-human patheticness, I gained 35 lbs. in two weeks. Let's do the math, kids.
35 lbs. = 122,500 calories = (35 (1 lbs*3,500cal)) as a lb. equals 3,500 calories.
Over the course of two weeks (14 days) = 8,750 calories per day.
8,750 calories. Per day.
Yes. Really. Doctors recommend about 1,500 calories per day.
Not to mention that I despised myself again. For doing this to myself. Again.
I really only had me to be mad at, though, and slowly began reigning in my eating habits.
It's impossible to say where I really began, but I attempted at least to go to the gym sometimes, but my heart wasn't in it anymore.
Then Frank happened! A more exceptional personal trainer, in my humble opinion, there simply is not. (And he has cute dimples, which is always a plus, but y'know, professional relationship.)
See? Cute, even in a skirt.
He is an amazing trainer because he listens. And through all of Anthony, he listened and subtly called me an idiot. I knew I was. But thanks for always reminding me, Frank. No, really. Thanks. Even though I was always 10 minutes late. :)
With his help and persistent, optimistic attitude toward, well, everything, I was able to get down to a stately 162 (with muscles this time). I was so grateful, I gave him horrible, terrible photos of me taken at night when I was wearing dude's gym shorts, a massively baggy shirt, my bear claw slippers (which are awesome, so hush), my hair all pulled back, no make up... I see that picture of me, and it causes me physical upset. But he said I could be his personal training advertisement. That requires 'Before' and 'After.'
I went to a Halloween party at a club and had a girl squeal to take a picture with me because I was "so pretty." I had previously ingested the legendary Red Headed Sloot (thanks, random guy at the bar) so what the heck, right?
*smileflash* Moving on.
Frank was there with his gorgeous girlfriend, Jessica, who I always thought couldn't stand me for some reason. I must admit, though, I wish I could see her when she gets her braces off as I have no doubt that she will be even MORE gorgeous than she was before. If that's even possible.
So my roommate and I are piddling around this dance floor with music that sounds like a cheese grater on my last auditory nerve. If you ever need to know anything about me, dear friends, it is this.
I. Hate. Crowds.
If you ever *really* read anything about wolves, you will learn why (well, that... and zombies).
Contingency plans and I get along very well. Anyway.
So we're in this club, strutting, we find friends, someone's hand trails along my hindquarters which rubbed my fur the wrong way, and we end up on stage, dancing in front of this crowd of what seemed to be people multiplying and splitting into each other. It's hard to describe.
Then I went home.
After that, I just... lost interest. I had killed myself at the gym again and slowly began to put on a pound here, a pound there. My insane dieting was absolutely not sustainable. Yo-yo dieting is maybe the third worst eating disorder/psychological "cry for help."
You are at risk of diabetes, heart disease, stroke, and all manner of thyroid, insulin imbalance, things that shouldn't go wrong with your body but do, because this is reality. This information is coming to you from my brain after reading hundreds of articles. I'll let you do your own research and let the sources speak for themselves. :)
I stayed around 184 and settled with myself that my body just wanted to weigh that. I certainly wasn't eating fast food nor was I doing any kind of crazy drinking. I first began to realize that my caloric intake was obviously at what it should be, as I am staying the same weight.
But I want to weight less. But I LOVE chocolate cake and cookies and ice cream and maybe the occasional slice of pizza for the week. I also love Indian food, Italian food, Japanese food... Food, pretty much. It just has to be
delicious.
Then I got another wild hare and started working out again, eating better-ish and doing yoga.
BINGO.
Instantly, inside myself, I found myself.
That silver, furry part of me with green eyes and teeth and "Don't mind the wolf behind the curtain."
The part that said, "You're killing me."
I knew I had to turn my eating around or forever be locked in a downward spiral of gain, lose, gain, lose. And I apparently lose that game.
I cleaned up a bit. No carbonated, syrup beverages. No high-fructose corn syrup. No partially-hydrogenated anything. If I wanted to eat it, I'd bake it myself.
Baking, as it turns out, is not recommended for anyone trying to lose weight. Temptation to eat just that last spoon of cookie dough is ridiculous. And I caved. Every. Time.
But still, the weight sat around. How irritating.
After some research, I discovered gluten intolerance and celiac disease. I have yet to be diagnosed, but if what I read it true, there's a strong indication I have it... And believe me, the results of eating a slice of bread are gastronomically painful.
So I cut bread out of my life. Sort of. The occasional pizza still made its way into the kitchen, or we'd* just boil some pasta, or have white rice with sushi.
*At this juncture, I'd like to point out that I am otherwise preoccupied with a wonderful man who also enjoys the gym and found his passion in lifting heavy things. He's like my chance to do it right this time.
As a Valentine's present, he paid for a trainer, and I'm on my second month.
I have a dear friend who is always encouraging me to do yoga and talking about retreats to beautiful islands where all you do is yoga, and oh! How great that sounds to me.
One day, I get up some gumption. I decide that I want to teach yoga. This newfound drive made me get a book called The Seven Spiritual Laws of Yoga and devour every word.
It talks about each law and how practicing different poses channels the energy to bring about ultimate success and pure potentiality. I vow to live a life based in good karma, good vibrations, and good energy.
Shortly after that, I cleaned up my eating and even shed a few pounds. It's amazing, really, what happens when you truly understand that everything you put in your mouth has an energy and vibrates with or against the universe. But I digress. Just for the simple fact that it's full of vitamins, minerals and clean.
Soon after, I signed up for an intense, one-week yoga cert.
In my excitement, I all but cut bread out of my diet. Problem was... all but.
Let's back up briefly. Earlier this year, a friend of ours decided he wanted to do the Tough Mudder.
This is an 11 mile long mud trail through fields, creeks, lakes, pits, and ditches, littered with a litany of extraordinarily challenging (well, I thought so) obstacles requiring such physical feats as leaping, getting shocked with electricity, submerging yourself completely in a vat of ice water, swim-crawl through big plastic tubes, etc.
We completed the Tough Mudder on March 31, 2012.
I cannot tell you what happened during that 11 mile journey. All I know is that I completed it and crossed the finish line.
And I was somehow different.
I came out with a passion for life that I have never experienced before. I wanted more and tougher.
When I lay in the yard, I hear birds telling jokes. I wiggle my toes in the grass and dirt and revel in the beauty of a blue sky. I smile because there is every reason in the world to do so. The universe came together by a series of interactions that wonderously led to my existence.
We are all made of star dust. No, really. Law of Conservation of Mass. There's only so much mass in the universe, and since I am part of the universe, I must be made of some of that mass. It's science!
"I think I turned primal," I tell people.
We ate Jack in the Box the day before, and I felt physically wounded the next day. Even as I was eating my favorite thing from this awful eatery, I could FEEL the chemicals making meat taste smoked and the plastic texture of the cheese clogging my system.
I went in to Tough Mudder weighing 184.6. I came out at a stately 183. Somewhere in that 1.6 lbs. I changed.
And now, voila. Here we are today.
Gil
